


Hermione Granger and the Philosopher's Stone

by astralelegies



Series: Hero Support [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Hermione Granger, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Female Protagonist, Gen, Growing Up, POV Female Character, POV Hermione Granger, Platonic Relationships, even if she doesn't realize it yet, more characters probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralelegies/pseuds/astralelegies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you rewrite a modern fantasy epic to star the brightest witch of her age? Mayhem, magic, and a girl taking charge of her own story as she grows up in an increasingly volatile world. Through twists of the plot and her wand alike, Hermione endeavors to figure out who she is, and maybe also save the world along the way. After all, life as the Chosen One’s best friend is far from easy. </p><p>Book One: Hermione Granger is eleven years old when she receives a letter telling her that she has been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, catapulting her into a realm beyond her wildest imaginings. As she adjusts to her new life, she must learn to navigate the struggles of making friends, fighting evil, and, scariest of all, growing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl Who Read

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this idea in the works since roughly the age of eight, when I decided that someday I was going to rewrite all of the Harry Potter books from Hermione’s perspective. (I had no idea what fanfiction was back then, which was probably for the best.) I finally got around to actually starting the endeavor recently. I don’t quite know where this is going to go yet, and I make no promises about frequent updating, although I do intend to (hopefully, eventually, at some point in the busy mess of life) work my way through all seven books. To keep things interesting so that it isn’t just a retelling of the same story, plot things and character development will likely be different than in the original series, though at least at this point I mean to follow the same general arc. Also, I’m American, so certain slang and spellings used are going to reflect that. Thanks for reading!

If someone had asked, although someone seldom did, Hermione Granger would have said that she did not intend to spend the afternoon of her first day of summer vacation crying in a dingy roadside bathroom in The Middle Of Nowhere, The English Countryside. It went like this: on the morning preceding the incident, Hermione had graduated top of her class from Millicent Malone’s Public Primary School, earning her admittance to St. Cecilia’s, an elite private boarding academy several hours away. Her parents had been elated, and to celebrate were taking her on a two-week holiday out of town. (Never mind that they had been planning the venture since spring; they assured Hermione it was in her honor and that was all that mattered.) They’d pulled up to the cottage they would be dwelling in late that night, and it was, rather surprisingly, as picturesque and charming as the advertisement had promised. The hills were green, the flowers were in bloom, the local food was said to be divine. Things seemed to be going swimmingly.

Of course, they just had to be staying right next to Cassius Dabney’s family. 

If Hermione Granger was the top of her class, then Cassius Dabney was the bottom. But what he lacked in academic proficiency he made up for in popularity, earned not by any discernable form of merit, but by a boorish penchant for tormenting the unfortunate among his classmates. Being friends with Cassius Dabney was not a guarantee that he would spare you from an unpleasant ritual taunting every now and again, but the prospect of some small measure of safety was tantalizing enough to most students that he seldom received consequences for his actions. 

It was enough to make Hermione livid. Worse, she seemed to be the favorite object of his ridiculing attentions, so much so that he had on more than one occasion been able to get the entire class to join in. Hermione didn’t believe archenemies were a thing real people had, but if they were, there was no doubt in her mind that Cassius Dabney would be hers. 

He was the reason that, not for the first time, she found herself crying alone in a grimy, locked bathroom stall. While her parents were still resting from the previous day’s drive, Hermione had gone off in search of a peaceful place she could read her book and contemplate the mysteries of the universe. Just as she’d found a nice hilltop oak she could settle under, something medium large and vaguely spherical had come flying out of nowhere, hitting her on the head. Upon further inspection it proved to be a football. 

“Ow,” she muttered, more to the ground than anyone who might be around to hear her. 

“You should have picked a better place to read your stupid book, Granger. We’re in the middle of a match.” 

She looked up to see Cassius Dabney sneering at her. 

“It’s a public space,” she told him, “I’m entitled to sit here if I want. And my book isn’t stupid!”

He grabbed it out of her hands. “It is so. What’s chemety electro…electro…

Hermione snatched it back from him. “Chemetic electrolysis. It’s science.” 

“Sounds dumb and boring.” 

Hermione wondered briefly how anyone so inept at formulating insults could ever instill fear in such a large number of people. Then he took her book, holding it tantalizingly out of her reach, and she remembered. 

She leapt to her feet. “Hey, give that back!”

“Come and make me.” 

“I’m serious, Cassius, give it to me.” 

He just smirked and danced back a few paces further. 

“Cassius!”

“I wonder what would happen if I tore a page out of your precious book?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Want to find out?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she breathed. 

“Wouldn’t I?”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“You won’t.”

“Watch me.” 

Before Hermione could react, he flipped the volume open and ripped. She gave an audible gasp, and he sneered at her. 

“So that’s what would happen.” 

He tore another clump of pages. Hermione felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Unfortunately Cassius noticed.

“Gee, I never knew it was so easy to get you to cry, Granger, or I’d have tried this sooner.”

Even though he’d tried nearly everything else to that effect. Even though this wasn’t the first time he’d succeeded. The more she thought about it, the angrier Hermione became, until it was a miracle she wasn’t shooting fireballs out of her eyes or some other nonsense at him. 

“Give me the book,” she seethed. 

Her ire only seemed to amuse him. He grinned wickedly. 

“What’ll you do if I don’t?” he jeered.

“This.”

A sudden wind whipped Hermione’s hair around her face, drying the tears where they still glistened on her cheeks, and knocking Cassius flat on his backside. The book flew out of his hands, along with all of the pages that had been torn out, and into Hermione’s outstretched fingers. The volume knit itself back together again in her grasp, until it was impossible to tell that any damage had been done at all. The wind died down as quickly as it had come.

Cassius Dabney’s eyes were wide. He stumbled to his feet, backing away.

“What are you?” he choked out, in a tone Hermione had never heard him use before. 

_He’s afraid._ She was too. She watched him run away from her and it didn’t feel as good as it would have if she’d had any idea of what was going on.

_What are you?_

Shaking, she fumbled her way to the nearest secluded structure she could find, an unused public toilet, and shut herself inside. She was crying again in earnest now, more out of fear than anything else. _What happened back there? What did I do?_

She knew, instinctively, like she knew that the sky was blue because of how light was refracted and that differentiability implied continuity, that she had been the cause of the strange occurrences. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been involved in unusual incidents before. But this…this blew everything else out of the water.

She’d felt so powerful. Deep down, that was what scared her most. She didn’t know what to do with such a force. 

Noticing that the sun was much lower in the sky than it had been when she’d set out to read, she wiped her eyes and headed back to the cottage for supper. She contemplated leaving the book behind in a poor attempt to forget the preceding hour, but it was a book, after all, and it would make her parents suspicious if she returned without it.

She was reluctant to tell them about the day’s events, for multiple reasons, but regardless they could tell almost immediately that something was wrong. 

“I’m fine,” she said, in response to some poorly concealed worried glances. 

“Hermione…” her mother began.

“Pass the salad, please.” 

There was a pause.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Hermione stood up, pushing her chair in. “You know what? I don’t think I’m that hungry after all.”

“Darling, wait—

But she was already halfway to her room. She slammed the door (or, not quite slammed, because even if she was upset she wasn’t sure how she felt about making such a disruptive noise) and threw herself onto the bed. She started crying again, which she felt was rather silly, but she couldn’t have stopped if she tried. After a few minutes the tears subsided, and she decided to distract herself by balancing chemical equations in her head. _If you take sodium hydroxide and bisulfate and the reaction creates sodium sulfate and water, how is the equilibrium achieved?_

She worked four more formulas in her head, and then her mind drifted to daydreaming. Hermione thought that when she grew up she would become a library curator, or a renowned scientist, or a teacher, or maybe just be queen of the world. And she knew that last one was irrational—no one could be queen of the world, modern systems of government simply didn’t work that way—but she couldn’t help feeling like she was meant for _something_. Something more than lonely summers and stupid boys destroying her books. 

There was a knock on her door. Her mother pushed her way into the room, carrying a tray of food in one hand and an envelope in the other. 

“I’m not here to talk,” Ms. Granger said, setting the tray down, “I just thought you might want something to eat. You did miss dinner.”

Hermione granted her a watery smile. “Thanks, mom.” 

“This came for you. You might want to take a look.”

She took the letter from her mother. It had an unfamiliar look to it—how common were envelopes made of parchment, emerald green ink, and seals composed of real wax? It was odd too in that the address written was not her own but that of their vacation cottage, as if whoever had sent it had known her family was going to be here in advance. Intrigued, she opened it and pulled out the letter.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress. _

Hermione lowered the paper, heart pounding. It had to be a practical joke. That was the only logical explanation. Except…

_It would explain what happened today. And why the other kids think I’m so odd._

It was like the Sherlock Holmes’ quote: when she had eliminated all that was impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. It seemed so extraordinary. And yet some restlessness had settled into place in Hermione’s heart when she’d read the letter, a glimmer of a form of belonging she’d never experienced before. Her rational side told her this couldn’t be real, but her intuition spoke otherwise. 

_So I’m a witch, then._ The next step was figuring out how to answer the message. She’d just been accepted into St. Cecilia’s, after all, and she wasn’t about to give that up so easily. It was a good school. One of the best. What did she really know about this Hogwarts place? She couldn’t just look it up in an encyclopedia. 

There were more materials—supplies required, a paper about the history of the institution, and a note marked “for the children of muggle parents” (a word, she found out, for non-magical people). The credentials all seemed rather impressive, and not the least bit fictitious.

She wondered if there were any boys like Cassius Dabney at Hogwarts. They seemed to crop up everywhere. But maybe if she studied magic she could learn to defend herself and others against such bullies. And she could control whatever strange and intimidating power throbbed beneath her veins. 

She’d made her decision. Hermione smiled, and began her reply.


	2. Muggle to Magic

The knowledge that she was a witch took Hermione some getting used to. It was difficult to believe, at first, even in the face of empirical evidence. She’d had no idea how to explain it to her parents, but fortunately that situation resolved itself on the third day of their vacation.

“I’m Professor Minerva McGonagall,” said the severe-looking woman at the cottage door, “and you must be the Grangers.”

Over tea, she explained to Mr. and Mrs. Granger about their daughter’s ability. 

“I can assure you that Hogwarts is the finest school on this continent for young witches and wizards,” she finished. “I can supply you with credentials if you wish.” 

“There’s no need for that,” Mrs. Granger said. “This just…such a shock. We never imagined we’d have a witch in the family.” 

Mr. Granger nodded. “She’ll be welcome there, of course? There won’t be trouble due to her unusual background?”

Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips. “There’s no denying that some in the wizarding world have their prejudices against those of muggle birth. But we take swift retribution against any who act on such biases at Hogwarts, and there will be plenty of others in Miss Granger’s situation should she be in need of solidarity. I myself had a muggle father, and I was Head Girl in my time.” 

Hermione liked the sound of that, though there was one thing still worrying her. 

“Will I be behind everyone else?” she asked. “Surely I have loads to catch up on that they already know.”

“That will be cultural differences more than anything,” Professor McGonagall assured her. “Very few students come into Hogwarts knowing how to cast spells, whether they have a wizarding background or otherwise. The first year will be primarily spent learning to control your abilities, something that all who possess magic struggle with. I have no doubt that you’ll prove as capable as your peers in this regard.”

They moved on to other topics, practicalities like where to buy spellbooks and the conversion rate between muggle and magical currency. Afterwards, as the woman was leaving, Hermione approached her in the hall.

“You wrote me that letter and then came here to make sure I understood it,” she said. “Why?”

“We try to send staff members out to muggle families with no history of magical relations,” Professor McGonagall explained. “It makes the transition easier.”

“Thank you,” Hermione blurted. 

McGonagall gave her a measured look, like she was calculating things Hermione didn’t know about. “Indeed. Goodbye, Miss Granger. I shall see you at the start of term.”

And with that she was gone. 

“Are you sure about this?” Hermione’s father asked her at dinner that night. “You don’t have to go. It’s a big, unfamiliar world you’re about to enter, and no one’s forcing you to step into it unless you’re ready.”

And Hermione didn’t know if she was ready, didn’t know what would happen when she left behind everything she knew to pursue what she still couldn’t help thinking of as a fairytale, but she had decided and there was no going back now. 

“I’m sure,” she said.

Two weeks later she made her first visit to Diagon Alley. They entered the Leaky Cauldron together, her parents hiding worried frowns, Hermione with a false bravado. She scanned the bar for signs of anything unusual before marching up to the man wiping glasses behind the counter.

“How can I get to Diagon Alley?”

He blinked at her. “New Hogwarts student, are you?”

She nodded.

“Right then. Follow me.” 

He led the Grangers out into a small courtyard and approached an unassuming stone wall, tapping one of the bricks three times with a short stick. _His wand?_ Hermione eyed it curiously. 

An opening appeared where the brick had been, growing into an archway that towered above their heads. The Grangers watched in awe. 

“Best of luck to you,” said the bartender, bowing them through. Hermione gazed at the alley around her.

It was like nothing she could have imagined. Everywhere she turned some colorful new sight awaited her—shops selling broomsticks, people in bottle-green cloaks or pointed hats. Misshapen buildings sprouted up from the narrow cobblestoned street, sporting signs for a dizzying array of unusual wares; cauldrons and newts’ eyes and—

“Books!” she cried, racing up to the window display of a store called Flourish and Blotts. 

Through the glass she could see shelves stretching to the ceiling, volumes of all shapes and sizes with exciting titles like _Practical Applications of the Jelly-Legs Jinx_ and _Spontaneous Combustion: Where Magic and Science Intertwine_. She spun around to face her parents, eyes shining. 

Her mother smiled. “Seems like you’re going to be right at home.”

“Can we buy some?”

“We need to get money first,” said her father. “Where is that Gringotts place Professor McGonagall mentioned?”

Hermione scanned the surrounding buildings and pointed. “There.” 

It was a difficult structure to miss. Tall and white, with important-looking doors and equally pompous people—or, perhaps not people?—guarding them, the wizarding bank looked as stately as its reputation. Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine when she passed the engraving on the inner entrance. _Thief, you have been warned, beware / Of finding more than treasure there._

She watched with interest while her parents set up some kind of account and exchanged bills for round, heavy coins. The little bronze ones were called knuts, she found out, and twenty-nine of them added up to a single silver sickle. Seventeen sickles made a galleon, gold and shiny and the most valuable out of the three. One galleon was equal to about five pounds. Her father pressed two into her palm and she skipped eagerly back to the bookstore. 

She could have spent the rest of the week inside it, if not the rest of her life. As it was, she spent over an hour rummaging through the various magical manuals and had to be dragged away for the completion of their errands, but not before buying as many books as she could carry out, whether or not they were on her syllabus. 

The rest of the afternoon’s activities flew by in a whirl. She was measured for new robes and Madam Malkin’s, bought a cauldron and potions ingredients from the Apothocary, and tested telescopes until she found a collapsible one that opened to reveal a pattern of tiny planets. The last thing on her list was a wand.

As Hermione pushed through the door to Mr. Ollivander’s shop a hush fell over her. All around her were thin boxes teetering in precarious piles. The owner himself poked his head out from behind one of them, regarding her placidly with pale, unblinking eyes. Adults sometimes told Hermione she had sharp eyes, a sign of her cleverness, they said. These eyes were different. They seemed to see nothing and everything at the same time. 

“H—hello,” she said, feeling suddenly and inexplicably nervous. “I’m Hermione Granger. I’m a new Hogwarts student.” 

“Of course,” he said. “You’ll be wanting a wand.

She nodded. He pulled out a tape measure and began taking calculations. When this was finished he inspected the boxes in silence a moment before pulling one down.

“Try this. Ash. Thirteen inches. Supple, excellent for charms and hexes. Unicorn hair core.” 

Hermione took the wand and waved it around a bit, unsure of what to do. Mr. Ollivander snatched it away.

“Definitely not.” He grabbed another box. “Ten-and-a-half inches, oak and phoenix feather.”

She tried again, but Mr. Ollivander didn’t seem satisfied. He gave her three more wands, none of which seemed quite right, before climbing on top of a stool and retrieving a box from the very top of one of the stacks. 

He presented it to her. “Ten and three-quarter inches, vine wood, dragon heartstring.” 

As soon as Hermione held the wand she felt her heart rate speed up. A shower of sparks streamed out of the end, and behind her she heard her mother give a small gasp. Mr. Ollivander clapped. 

“Yes, I thought this might be the one. Dragon heartstring. A very powerful core to have, very quick to learn. A strong bonder indeed.” 

Hermione didn’t really know what any of it meant, but she held her new wand close as she exited the shop.

The sun was low in the sky as they made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Back in her room, she deposited all her strange parcels and spent hours examining each one of them in detail, imagining what magic school would be like. She spent the next three days reading _Hogwarts: A History_ and wondering what house she’d be sorted into. She wondered if she would have friends.

 

During what remained of her summer she finished the rest of her books. She was determined to learn everything she could about the wizarding world so that she wouldn’t be behind the rest of her classmates. Her pattern of reading all day and in secret under the covers after the lights went out carried her until the last night before the start of the new school year. She couldn’t sleep for the nerves and excitement twisting around in the pit of her stomach. Her bags were packed, her robes laid out neatly at the foot of her bed, and her books all put away. She was ready to go. 

_At this time tomorrow night, I’ll be at Hogwarts_ , she thought, staring out at the stars through a crack in her curtains. _At this time tomorrow night, everything I’ve been waiting for will finally be true._

She rolled over and closed her eyes, drifting off at last to dreams of what the coming day would bring.


End file.
